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I don’t know what’s wrong, but nothing’s right

Something was wrong with me, but I didn’t know what. I spent 23 years trying to reach out for help.

Suicide wasn’t the answer, I knew it, but somehow I didn’t want to carry on living with that sensation of black smoke in my chest… I tried 3 times, but nobody heard. Dad even laughed at it and took it as a joke when he was told.

Maybe I was the wrong one and the rest were right. I didn’t need any help. I was fine. At least that was the opinion of my parents, the 6 psychologists and 2 psychiatrists I saw.

The first time I asked to be seen by someone I was 7 years old. It’s never too early to be depressed. I couldn’t relate to others and I spent most of my time alone, whilst my parents were away. With work? I’ve no idea.

They said they spent time with me, but if I look back I can only see a lonely child. I’ve what is called memory fragmentation and I can only remember things that my patterns recognise. These are pain, rage and shame.

I’m almost 26 years old, and guess what… I found the answer!

I don’t know if you’d relate to me or not, but I spent ages on the internet mainly because it made me feel safe, it allowed me to create a world within my mind. The reality was really lonely. Music was my refugee. I went everywhere with my headphones on. Reality wasn’t allowed to go through my self-defence mechanisms.

Online relationships made me feel better, but they were a placebo for my brain. When they were real, they were tremendously unstable. They were my distraction, and keep me away from what was really important: myself and my health. I’m still struggling not to get in them…

After the third attempt I was diagnosed with Paranoid Personality Disorder – basically I think everyone’s going to harm me, it’s more complex than that, but in a nutshell that’s it – Borderline Personality Disorder and Double Depressive Disorder.

“Another wrong diagnose,” I thought.

To my own amazement, it was right. After I started taking the medication and attending therapy; I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Little by little the sun spells turned up.

However, something was made clear to me: this disease will stay with me for a while.

In order to control it, I’ve to pick a healthier life style, stay away from alcohol (no drinking… fuck me! all my friends drink!), and be disciplined with exercise and medication.

My own recovery is in my hands, and I know what I need to do. No one else is going to do it for me.

Why me? many people have cancer, diabetes, suffer of famine, and I’ve this, sometimes I’m grateful that I can control it.

Still… I’ve to live with that part of me, the one I like to call Erika. She’s that black smoke, that stream of thoughts in my head, that feeling of loneliness, that sadness inside, and that rage waiting to come out in the form of self harming.

Erika does a bunch of stuff that brings consequences to me. When something bad happens in her surroundings, she handles it by calling lads who don’t give a shit about her, she eats compulsively, she drinks and puts herself at risk, she sleeps with people she doesn’t like. On top of it all, she tells herself off for doing it, but she can’t stop.

She can’t be wiped out, but controlled.

This is the diary of me and my paranoid personality disorders.

It’s a shame but the mental health issues are not well recognised yet as an illness in many societies and they continue to be a taboo for many families.

Writing is my thermionic valve, and I hope it’s useful for you too. Feel free to leave comments, agreeing or disagreeing, or send messages or write the frustrations of the day.

WARNING: the views on this blog are my own. I don’t intend to create copycats of my behaviour, but to be an inspiration for the recovery of other people.